


Till Every Prophet Shuts Their Eyes

by arcadianambivalence



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x10 speculation, Gen, M/M, Multi, Post-Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, post 9x09
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadianambivalence/pseuds/arcadianambivalence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We need your help, Dean Winchester, righteous man, good man, one last time."  After Crowley fails to exorcise Gadreel from Sam, the King of Hell and Metatron's right-hand man escape from the bunker.  Dean is left to chase after Gadreel on his own until an angel, one long thought lost, asks him to save the next prophet.  While Crowley and Gadreel systematically attack each newborn and future prophet, Dean must weigh his options and make more unlikely alliances to protect the next prophet, Castiel, and his growing army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Year's Resolution

**New Year's Resolution**

Dean recounted what he knew: Kevin was dead.  Cas was an angel again and needed, in his own words, to be away from Dean.  Crowley was gone, escaped after failing—most likely intentionally—to separate Sam from the angel.  Worst of all, Sam was still Gadreel’s meatsuit.  And Dean was alone again.

It was late at night on New Year’s Eve, and Dean was running on fumes on his second day without sleep.  As he scoured every book on Enochian and angel spells in the library, he lived with a cup of piping hot coffee at arm’s reach.

For several days, the only sounds he heard were his own: feet scuffling across the floor, book pages turning, the coffee maker beeping and hissing when pouring its treasured liquid into yet another mug.

So when the radio in the next room turned on without his touching it and buzzed with static, Dean nearly leapt from his skin.  In his start, he knocked against the table, tipping the mug off the edge and onto the floor with a crash.  He glanced around the room.  It was empty except for him.  The door was locked and bolted, and there were no other ghosts in the Bunker.  He had checked.

A gun in his hand, he crept into the next room to see who, or what, turned on the radio.  This room was empty, as well.

Cautiously, he called out.  “ _Cas?_ ”

The radio clicked off.  Silence rung in his ears.

Wondering if Castiel had decided to return after all, Dean stepped back into the library and looked down at the broken coffee mug and the puddle of coffee seeping into the carpet.  “Damnit,” he muttered.  Waiting for Cas’s familiar “Hello Dean,” he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a rag and broom for the mess.

When he returned to the library, he found the mug sitting, repaired, on the table and the puddle of coffee wiped away.  He stopped in his tracks.  This was new.  Cas usually did not go around cleaning up messes, at least not like this.

“What the—?”

“I told you,” a voice interrupted.  “I like the element of surprise.”

Dean dropped the cloth and broom and whirled around.  On the other side of the room stood a young woman, one he could not name but knew he had seen her before.

In reflex, Dean pulled his gun from the outside pocket of his jacket and aimed it at the woman.

“What are you doing here?”  He demanded.

The young woman slowly raised her hands.  “We met a few days ago.  You were in town.  You bought a ton of salt at the grocery store.”  True to her words, she wore a vest with the store’s name embroidered on it.

He did not lower the gun.  “And that explains why you’re here how?”

She stared down the barrel of the gun with eerily calm eyes.  “You called.  Granted, it was awhile ago, but I’ve been busy.”

“And the mug?  What, do you clean up after other people in your spare time?”

“I’m your guest,” she replied serenely.  “I thought I’d help you look after your home.”  She swept her eyes appreciatively around the room.  “And it _is_ a nice home.”

Dean grit his teeth and decided to risk a name drop.  “If this is your way of playing a prank, Cas, I can tell you this ain’t how it’s done.”

The woman tensed at the name.  Dean rested his finger on the trigger.

“Who are you?”  He asked.

The young woman’s eyes flickered with angelic light.  “Anna.”

Dean fired, sending a bullet straight into the woman’s forehead.  She threw her head back, her eyes glowing brightly, before lowering her chin and staring at him, her posture stiff.  Her forehead was completely healed.

“We need to talk, Dean.”  She stated cooly.

“I thought you were roasted a couple decades ago.”  He snapped.

“Not roasted,” she replied, “Just imprisoned.  Again.”

“But now you’re out to finish the job, or something?”

She shook her head and stepped forward.  “I don’t want to hurt you, Dean.”

“How are you even here?”

“When Metatron cast his spell, every angel in Heaven was thrown to Earth.  Including the imprisoned ones, but…I guess you already know that.  Gadreel’s been here.”

Dean slowly pocketed his gun.  “What do you want, Anna?”

She glanced him up and down, taking in his emotional state, before replying measuredly, “I need you to turn away from chasing down Gadreel for awhile and focus on finding the next prophet before Crowley does.”

“Stop hunting down the dick _wearing_ my brother, the brother _you_ tried to gank the last time I saw you?  Oh, well that’s great coming from you.”  He snapped, preparing to reach for the angel blade inside his jacket.

Without looking away, Anna pressed her lips together and slightly bowed her head in an admission.  “I am sorry for the attempted familicide, Dean.  I was not in my right mind.  There was an angel named—”

“Naomi,” Dean finished tersely.  “Yeah, I’ve heard of her.”

“Then you know what she was capable of.”

Dean glowered, “That’s not an excuse.”

She drew her eyebrows together and began to circle him.  “I was manipulated into thinking that there was no other option, no other _valid_ one, anyway.  It was killing a vessel, ending a bloodline to stop the future from happening, an option which I remember you signed off on when you told your mother that you were okay with not being born.  You have killed vessels for years, Dean.”

“It appears we’ve both done that,” he quipped, maintaining eye contact, daring her to look away first.

She stilled.  “And what you did in Hell, breaking under torture, maiming other souls—was that excusable?”

He felt like he had been punched in the gut.  His anger flared and Dean swiftly yanked the angel blade from his pocket and lunged at the angel.

In the blink of an eye, Anna grabbed Dean’s wrists, twisting the knife out of his hands, and slammed him against the wall.  She pinned his wrists against the wall and away from his sides.  Her warm brown eyes turned stony and she rose to her full height.  She was every inch the Angel Officer who led a platoon of Heaven’s troops and later pointed Sam, Ruby, and Dean to her Grace.

Being thrown against a wall by an angel was never high on Dean’s list, especially when this angel previously attempted to kill his family and had now effectively disarmed him of the only weapon he knew how to slay her with.  He glared at her, bracing himself for further attack and wondering if Cas could somehow realize how in over his head he was and return to the bunker.

But instead of beating him, Anna murmured fiercely, “Now, listen.  Dean, this is not about excuses or free will.  This is about _choice_ , about choosing the less terrible outcome of those available.  We can’t have a clean break from this.  I am sorry, but we can’t.  We have choices, though.  Choices we make to get the outcome we want.”

Dean struggled in her grasp, but each time he tried to twist from her grip, she pushed him against the wall again.

She continued as if Dean was not wriggling in front of her, “We need to find the next prophet before anyone else does.  Metatron, Gadreel, Crowley—beat them all to the punch.  The prophet must survive long enough to tell us how to save _everything._   Sam may live, but Gadreel has to die.  Metatron has to die.  And after them, we need to imprison Bartholomew and Malachai before they destroy every being on Earth.”

“But Cas—” Dean protested before Anna pressed a finger to his mouth.

“Won’t be of help for long if he keeps Theo’s Grace.  An angel’s Grace is not transferrable.  Not for long, at least.  If he keeps the Grace inside long enough, it will kill him.”

Dean stilled and his eyes widened, but he would not make a sound, would not reveal any further sign of the panic at hearing how Cas was in danger.  He would not give Anna the pleasure of confirming his vulnerabilities.

But, as she always had been, Anna was perceptive.  She always saw right through him.  Anna grew quiet and her eyes softened.  Her lips were slightly apart, and she gazed at him with something resonant with sympathy and understanding.  Briefly, he felt as if he was with Anna Milton, the Anna he knew and cared about, again.  It was like seeing Bobby and Meg Master’s ghosts all over again.

“I know this is much to ask of you, Dean.”  She murmured, her grip softening slightly.  “I know you’re in pain and that you want nothing to do with me, and after this, I will leave you alone like I have since Metatron cast his spell.”

Her touch was softer.  Gentle, but firm.  Anna always used touch to comfort—or to hold her enemy in place while she ran him through with a blade.  But this contact was for the former.

Her voice was like her touch.  An anchor rooted in her human aspects while she struggled to find the words, any angelic tool, to convince him.  And it was working.  With every word, Dean felt his stomach sink lower and lower.  She gave him a plan, one that was less of a wild goose chase than barreling across the country after Gadreel.  It was a more tangible purpose—but one that weighed heavier on him than even his own guilt.

“But you _can_ do this.  You have proved time and time again that you are strong enough, that you have the heart and the mind and the courage to lead.  We need your help, Dean Winchester, righteous man, _good_ man, one last time.  Save us.  Save Sam.  And together we can protect the world from the angels and the demons who want to destroy it.”

Slowly, she slid her hands from his and stepped back—guarded, but less than before.  Her voice and her eyes were reassuring, budding with something he thought the world, and most certainly he, had lost.

Hope.

Dean’s shoulders sank.  Still against the wall, he glanced at the angel blade resting several feet away.  He could make a try for it and stab Anna, but he would not.  He was too far, too weighed down by his own thoughts, _too tired_ to even make an attempt.

The Apocalypse was over.  The ‘End’ had passed.  At least, that was what he thought, what it felt like.  The weight of the world was gone when Sam returned, when the Leviathan slunk away, when the gates were left open and the world returned to its natural order.  But there never was a ‘natural’ state for the world, was there?  The world would never be off his shoulders, would it?  He was, quite literally, _made_ for this job.

He raised his weary eyes to meet Anna’s.  “Yes.  I will do it.”

Anna nodded, eyes pitying, the corners of her lips curving upwards in a vague smile.  “Good,” she whispered before reverting to a straightened, soldier-like stace with a stoid face.  “I will leave you to prepare while I find the prophet’s name and location.  When you’re ready, go to the door of the Bunker.  Leave a rose.”

Dean stiffened, reminded of Zachariah’s vision for him.  “Why—why a rose?  Anna?”  He sputtered, emotion, energy, and focus returning to him as he stepped away from the wall.

She tipped her head to the side at his reaction before responding.  “Before we met, my name was Anael.  The rose is my calling card.”  She stepped away from him and climbed the stairs.  “I need to leave now.  Remember, one rose.”

Before disappearing out the front door, she turned to him once more.  “And, Dean.”

He met her eyes with worry.  What more could she possibly want from him?

She bowed her head.  “Thank you.”

He was alone.

The radio in the next room clicked back on.

_Whatever you do._   The words haunted his mind.  _No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter._ The fallen angel—the _monster—_ wearing his brother’s face grinned.  _We will always end up here._

His ears pricked from the static of the radio.

_3…2…_

He knew the words.  He would hear them no matter where he went.  And as the announcer shouted a jubilant “Happy New Year!” Dean slid to the ground and hid his head in his hands.

2014.

He recounted what he knew: The angels had fallen.  Gadreel walked the Earth in Sam’s meatsuit.  Cas was in danger and walking a fine line between angel and human.  Now, another angel, Anna—Anael—seemingly back from the dead, but really only back from Heaven, needed him.  Apparently, _all_ of the angels needed him.  Angels, humans.  Everyone turned to him once more, like with the Apocalypse.

And if Zachariah was right, he was facing an outbreak of the Croatoan virus that would destroy the human population.  Lucifer.  Michael.  They were still in the cage, but Sam was locked inside his body and Gadreel was in control.

But not forever.

Resolve brewed within him.  He narrowed his eyes and rose to his feet.  Dean crossed the room and pocketed the angel blade.  He swallowed and thrust his chin up, glancing around the room for anything he would need to bring with him.  In the next few hours, he redrew any broken sigils and traps around the bunker, combed the library for any book that might be of use, made himself breakfast with three cups of coffee, and threw what he needed in a bag:  Ruby’s knife, a few books, a couple canisters of salt, two guns, Dad’s journal, Devil’s Trap inscribed handcuffs, and the angel blade.

The sun was beginning to rise by the time he finished.  Feeling at once exhausted and buzzed for a new hunt, Dean surveyed his work.

“2014,” he muttered.  “The second Apocalypse.  Awesome.”

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs.  Dean turned to take one last look at the bunker before locking the door behind him.  He climbed into the Impala and tossed his bag in the back.  There was a florist’s shop in town.  It would probably be open in an hour.  He would get the rose, a bite to eat, and plan his next move.  Anna was waiting.  And he had work to do.


	2. Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We need your help, Dean Winchester, righteous man, good man, one last time." After Crowley fails to exorcise Gadreel from Sam, the King of Hell and Metatron's right-hand man escape from the bunker. Dean is left to chase after Gadreel on his own until an angel, one long thought lost, asks him to save the next prophet. While Crowley and Gadreel systematically attack each newborn and future prophet, Dean must weigh his options and make more unlikely alliances to protect the next prophet, Castiel, and his growing army.

**Road Trip**

With chagrin, Dean set the rose on the front doorstep outside the Bunker.  It was bad enough he had to put something akin to trust in an angel who could very well betray him—again—but now he had to leave a freaking flower calling card.  He ducked his head and glanced around, expecting an unwanted visit from anyone other than Anna, or Anael, as she called herself.  In his years of hunting, he had done some pretty awkward things to summon monsters, but this was something else.

If he had not looked up information about Anael, Dean would have thought that this evocation was some way of shaming him or leaving him vulnerable to a knife through the back.  Not for the first time in the past few hours, he was reminded of Zachariah’s vision, of Lucifer standing among a garden of rose bushes. 

Another memory resurfaced, too.  Castiel snagging his flesh on a rose thorn before his assumed date with Nora.

But he was not going to get distracted by that.

_If he keeps the Grace inside long enough, it will kill him._

Each time he remembered Anna’s words, Dean felt the terror dig deeper into his chest, the panic rise in his throat.

“Hello, Dean.”  Anna’s voice jarred him from his thoughts. 

He turned and glanced around for her until his eyes rested on the passenger’s seat of the Impala.

“Get out of the car!” 

The words came out before Dean was aware of speaking and storming the several steps to the Chevy.  He felt a flash of gratefulness that he, at least, had not called Baby by her name. 

In a second, Anna stood in front of him.  There was a hint of amusement in her eyes.  “I forgot how sentimental you are about your car.”  She glanced over shoulder at the Impala.  “It’s been awhile since I’ve been in it.”

“Doesn’t mean you get to just pop up in shotgun,” Dean muttered, brushing past her and examining the passenger’s seat for any marks.

“Luigi Ponzi was the first to awake,” Anna informed Dean.  The subject change felt like whiplash.  “He had time to leave his family, buy a plane ticket to Salt Lake City, and drive a rental car across Wyoming before reaching the angel and demon tablets.  Unfortunately, responding to the pull of the tablets led him right into Gadreel’s grasp.”

Dean nodded.  “Any more?”

Anna shifted.  “The child Aaron Webber and his family were attacked by demons the following night.  Aaron’s throat was slit.”  She glanced down at her feet and spoke softer, “But the other family members were still alive when—” she paused, as if considering whether to share this next piece of information “—their house was burned down.”

A chill ran through him.  Seething anger soon took its place.

Dean was silent for a moment before speaking.  “Crowley.  Same plan—kill the next prophet.  Who’s left?”

“Justin, Maria, Dennis, and Sven.”

Uneasiness tugged at Dean.  The numbers had dwindled before he even joined the fight.

“Crowley _and_ Gadreel,” Dean muttered.  “That’s great.”

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, they were on the road.  Dean drove in silence.  Anna perched in the back seat.  Although he knew that Anna would act faster than he could even think to react, he habitually glanced back at her in the mirror, half expecting to find her gone.

“Why don’t you just beam us there, Scotty?”  Dean joked, trying to break the silence.

“I don’t want to waste energy,” she replied.

Dean waited for her to offer more information, but, like Cas, she was not much of a sharer.  “The fall giving you an energy crisis?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.  “You could say that.”

“You know, some of the other angels I’ve come across haven’t been able to, uh, fly at all.  How are your wings in such good condition?”

She shrugged, shaking her head.  “Before I fell for the first time, I was one of the Principalities, sort of like a major.  My Grace was strong.  Maybe it protected me.”

“Second time makes perfect,” Dean muttered.  He immediately regretted saying that.  Anna could kill him whenever she wanted if she wanted to.  The only reason he didn’t stop the car and make a run for it or carve out a banishing sigil was because he was banking on her still having a soft spot for him after all this time.

Anna quirked her head at him and changed topics.  “Crowley and Gadreel must be working together.  If not, they will soon.”

Dean stared at her.

She tilted her head and addressed him as if this was the most obvious assumption.  “Crowley is losing followers and Gadreel is a follower, not a leader.  Crowley and whoever Gadreel’s working for are going to realize they need to form alliances, and quickly, if they are going to keep the tablets and the prophets from falling into anyone else’s hands.”

Dean shuffled his feet.  “Gadreel’s boss must be desperate if he’s reigning a demon into this.”

Anna opened her mouth as if to say something, but remained silent—a reaction not lost on Dean.  He stepped toward her.

“Oh, no.  We are not doing this ‘You point, I go marching out without the truth’ crap.  If I’m part of another war, I want to know what I’m getting into and who I’m going up against.”

She reflected for a moment.  “While I kept my distance, I helped other angels find vessels and adjust to being somewhat human, like lightening storms inside of glass cups.  There are at least two sides, Bartholomew’s and Malachai’s.  They want to find a way back into Heaven so they can kill Metatron and claim Heaven for themselves.  They’re trying to approach everyone they can.”

“So who approached you?”

She met his gaze before faltering self-consciously.  “No one.  To them I’m…broken.  I’m as much use as a chipped glass.  Damaged goods.  Too human.”

Dean flinched at her words.  “Being human’s not so bad.”

A smile tugged at her lips.  “I remember this conversation going a different way not long ago.”

“Yeah, well,” he tucked his chin to his chest.  “Things change.”


End file.
